


Just A Taste

by FromAnonymousToZ



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: And the Beast does enjoy it, But if you're not comfortable with it, Canibalistic tendencies, Enoch as an eldrich being, From therin what canibalism can exist between two entities as different as Enoch and the Beast, I'm tagging it as mature to be safe, M/M, Non-consensual maiming, Not in an inherintly sexual way, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smut, Teeth, The Beast fixated on Enoch's mouth, The maypole skin being caught between Enoch's nature and reality, This is the second time i've had to tag non-con because of enoch doing something impulsive, Two dumb gay eldrich psycopomps sitting in a hay loft t-e-a-r-i-n-g e-a-c-h o-t-h-e-r a-p-a-r-t, dont, i dont know, is this smut?, non-consensual biting, please, please read my warning in the notes, venom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24928081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAnonymousToZ/pseuds/FromAnonymousToZ
Summary: Enoch is a very large being.There's not a single skin he could forge or find that would be vast enough to contain every shred and facet of his being.Generally speaking, he only fit into a body what that skin could hold, though occasionally he did overfill a skin.And when more of Enoch than could fit in one particular body was forced into one skin, the skin shifted to accommodate the change.The Beast knew this.He also knew Enoch’s mouth was usually the first thing to go.He wants a closer look, but may have bitten off more than he can chew.
Relationships: The Beast/Enoch (Over the Garden Wall)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	Just A Taste

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: 
> 
> I hesitate to call it smut, but be warned, it might be smut. 
> 
> WARNING: This story contains Enoch biting the Beast without consent, not letting him go when the Beast struggles. 
> 
> In the end the Beast is ok with it, but if you have had a bad experience, think you will not enjoy this, or that any of the elements may upset you or trigger you, please, don't read.
> 
> Consent is serious, this is the second story I've written where Enoch does something out of line. Please practice consent in your day to day life, don't be like Enoch.

Enoch is a very large being. 

There's not a single skin he could forge or find that would be vast enough to contain every shred and facet of his being. 

Generally speaking, he only fit into a body what that skin could hold, though occasionally he did overfill a skin.

And when more of Enoch than could fit in one particular body was forced into one skin, the skin shifted to accommodate the change. 

The Beast knew this. 

He also knew Enoch’s mouth was usually the first thing to go. Warping and folding and sharpening to become something much more eldritch and monstrous. 

He’s seen it, when Enoch gets too excited or worked up, the way the fabric ripples back over a maw of fangs, or when the cat skin has difficulty closing its mouth for the sheer number of teeth it suddenly has. 

He supposes the same would happen if Enoch got angry enough, but the lord of the peaceful dead was so rarely anything other than charmed or confused and mildly intrigued by the Beast. What it would take to turn Enoch’s pleasant demeanor to rage would likely only be the intentional sabotaging of his town. 

He spares a thought to it, Enoch, enraged, his streamers no longer restrained in their strength as they found conquest and revenge in cracking the Beast’s wooden body. Sharp teeth flashing, a snarl as the smell of rot rises up around them.

The thought sent chills down what little of a spine he had and sparked something very much like eagerness in him. 

Not that he ever genuinely wants Enoch angry at him. 

Enoch knew too much, he was privy to too many of the Beast’s secrets, he knew too many weaknesses. 

It was in his best interests to keep the harvest lord pleased and amused rather than angry.

Indeed the Beast was wary to put himself in those feelers even when he was in Enoch’s good graces. Enoch was a powerful creature, and one who knew well the workings of winter, it was a risk every time he entered autumn’s domain that he would not be able to leave again.

But a little roughness wouldn't go awry now and then.

He also thought it was very telling that for a creature of contentment and peace, the first thing that he summoned up was a mouth full of sharp teeth. 

It was rather telling of the Harvest Lord’s past as a war god. 

It spoke of a barely hidden thirst for conquest and bloodshed, and it spoke of a power hidden behind rippling fabric and danger.

It entrances him. 

Enoch’s mouth is such a rare sight, usually only ripping itself open for a few moments before stitching itself back together as the harvest lord composes himself. 

The Beast asks about it. 

Enoch is laying partially in the loft, the great head of the maypole tilting and lopsided, resting in the hay of the loft. Many of his ribbons trailed down and loitered about the ground and some were tied up in the rafters as if to catch the head if it rolled out of the loft.

The Beast for his part is sitting, somewhat sprawled, beside the maypole’s head, tying and untying a ribbon that Enoch has left dithering in his claws.

The thing only occasionally gives a weak twitch or flicks, sometimes it wriggles to slip out of the knots he is tying, but for the most part Enoch leaves it to the Beast’s tender mercies. 

He ties a bow then slips it untied, enjoying the rasping sound of fabric as it moves against itself. 

Enoch is mostly quiet, only occasionally humming for a few brief moments. Occasionally the Beast will join in with his own humming but they both occasionally peter off to silence.

Enoch’s attention is elsewhere, perhaps tending to his web or maintaining the borders or conversing with his Pottsfeilders, or perhaps the great harvest deity is simply lost among his thoughts. 

The Beast thinks its rather foolish to divert your attention away when leaving a fragment of one’s self with as dangerous a being as the Beast himself is. 

However, the Beast is not nearly so vast as Enoch, so he cannot say if the distractedness is a result of foolishly placed trust, arrogance, or if Enoch knows he can recover from any damage the Beast can do to this part of him.

He tugs harshly on the ribbon and feels Enoch’s attention flicker briefly towards him as the maypole makes a short sound.

The Beast winds the ribbon between his claws, stroking it gently as if in apology for his previous roughness. Then, one handedly he twists it and ties it around his wrist with a few sharp tugs.

Enoch makes a short keening sound and the Beast has half a mind to tie it tighter just to hear the noise again. However he’s not foolish enough to bind himself in a knot he cant get out of. 

“Enoch.” He murmurs and the harvest lord sighs, oozing pleasure. 

“Yes, dear?” Enoch’s voice is soft, it murmurs and bubbles like a river, it washes over the Beast, rolling like water. It buzzes under his bark and sends his souls into a tizzy, tangled up in one another as they claw towards the surface of his bark seeking the source of that voice. 

“When there is more of you than fits in this body,” The Beast says as he tries to work his claws into the knot to untie it. To his vast displeasure, he finds Enoch has done the task of tightening the knot himself. “Your physical form contorts to adapt to the excess of you in one place.” 

“Hmmm… yes.” Enoch says distractedly as the Beast hisses down at the strip of cloth now tied about his wrist like a vice. With each loosening tug the maypole tightens his grip. 

“You have a mouth.” 

The fabric of the maypole shifts, as if the blank eyes are flicking over to the Beast. The head shifts and its gaze returns to his bound wrist.

Enoch is still distracted, but the Beast has at least captured a fragment of his attention. 

“Yes,” He murmurs, offhandedly as the ribbon binds itself tighter around the Beast’s wrist. Enoch’s attention seems to be more focused on how tightly he can pull the ribbon around the Beast’s wrist rather than his words. “I’d look rather silly if I didn't.”

One of his ribbons comes up to run across the fabric of his face, pushing idly at one of the fabric eyes. 

“I suppose I don’t need one, or eyes for that matter. Though mortals find having something familiar to look at comforting.” The harvest lord says thoughtlessly.

The Beast considers this for a moment. 

“I was referring to your mouth when you’ve overfilled your skin.” The Beast forces his claws into the knot, loosening it and yanking.

“Oh, yes, that.” Enoch pulls tighter. “A rather embarrassing loss of control, I’m sorry to say. Happens every few decades. I had very nearly forgotten you have witnessed such a display.” The maypole makes a heaving motion then sags as if Enoch is some mere mortal who needs to occasionally flex his shoulders to alleviate stiffness in them. 

The Beast hums noncommittally.

Enoch sighs, and breaths out a smell so thick and alcoholic the Beast thinks he might choke on it.

Silence spans out again and the Beast is about ready to sheer Enoch’s ribbon off with his claws. 

After a long while he speaks again. He feels Enoch’s interest which had ebbed in the silence return as he began to speak. It was idle interest he felt radiating from the harvest lord and it told him most of Enoch was preoccupied. 

“I would like to see it.” 

All at once the Beast can feel the shift in Enoch’s attention.

It lurches towards him and washes up around him, clutching to the rough ridges of the Beast as Enoch’s attention becomes a rapt and almost physical thing. 

Enoch is far more of a metaphysical being than the Beast, and if they were in his forest where he could feel the nuance of all things, he’s sure he could have felt more than a small portion of Enoch rushing to the spot as his attention was piqued. 

Instead he gags on the sudden presence of Enoch in the air. 

He has to stop breathing just to ensure he doesn't get distracted by the smell.

The maypole’s head has shifted turning so that it isn't laying on its side and is more fully pulled up by its ribbons. 

“You want to see my mouth?” The maypole’s voice is fascinated, as if he’s never entertained such a possibility and isn't sure if he didn't just imagine it. 

“Yes.” The Beast hisses and he can smell a shift in Enoch. He can't quite identify it, the smell is still drowned by the lingering alcohol-cider smell. Maybe in a few minutes he’ll be able to pick it out. 

“I would also be greatly gratified if you could release me.” He gestured at the ribbon around his wrist. 

In response Enoch just laughed and the ribbon tightened. 

When the maypole’s mirth fades that strange scent lingers still, stronger now, and pervasive. 

The Beast takes only small sniffs, still worried he’ll end up distracted by the feast of scents around him. 

It smells like burning sugar. 

“Now, Beast, I didn’t take you for one who takes unnecessary risks.”

The Beast’s eyes flicked over Enoch’s form, up to the maypole’s head then down to the binding around his wrists then back at the maypole. 

“Pardon?” He tries to keep his surprise from his voice, but he’s sure Enoch can read it in his eyes, his body tensed and ready to leap into action should this become a dangerous situation to remain in.

Enoch laughs, a blooming thing that blossoms and cuts through any wariness the Beast might have had. 

“You’re tempting the monster.” He teases, waving a streamer at the Beast fondly. “Asking it to open its jaws for you, it's quite the risk trusting it not to snap shut on you.”

The Beast wants to roll his eyes at the theatrics. 

Enoch seems to sense that he doesn't find it humorous and his own chuckling slowly dies out. 

“Enoch.” The Beast chides. 

“I’m serious, Beast.” The great maypole’s chuckles do little to assure the Beast he is indeed being serious. “Don’t put a starving man before a feast and expect him not to bite.” 

“I do believe.” He says dryly. “That I fit the roll of the starving man far better than you.” 

Enoch giggles at that. 

Think of that, he’s got the magistrate of Pottsfeild giggling and half draped in his lap.

“Perhaps, but it is truly easier to remember not to devour you alive when I have no mouth.” The ribbon around his wrist wriggles suggestively. Enoch is still teasing him. 

The Beast growls. 

“If you are not willing, Harvest Lord, simply say so.” 

“Now I didn't say that, Hope Eater.” The harvest lord soothes. “I’m just making sure you know what you’re getting into.” 

“I assure you, Enoch, there is no other being who better knows restraining hunger than I.” 

“Hmm, indeed.” Enoch murmurs and shifts the maypole so that it is resting more solidly in the loft. “Go on then.” He coaxes. 

The Beast blinks at him. 

“Come now,” Enoch wiggles his streamers in a manner that is probably meant to be enticing. “Touch me.” 

“Why?” The Beast doesn't mean it to come out so indignant, but Enoch seems only charmed by it. 

“I need to get worked up, dear, otherwise we shall be here a long while as I manifest.”

The Beast stares at him blankly. 

“I am not going to intentionally provoke you, Harvest Lord.” He murmurs. “I am many things but I am not suicidal.”

Enoch hums at the thought. 

“No, I do not think it needs to come to that. Just touch me, Winter Spirit.”

The Beast stares at him warily but gradually sits up fully. He adjusts his position so he is on his knees before the maypole, sitting back on his haunches. 

He reaches out with a cautious hand, caressing the side of the maypole’s head. 

He kneads the fabric in his hand, pressing and pulling and feeling the slide of corn silk fabric under his hands.

Enoch keens, making a soft noise and filling the barn with the burnt sugar smell. It coats the back of the Beast’s throat and clouds his head.

When it becomes evident the harvest lord isn't going to bite his hand off, though maybe that wouldn't be unwelcome, he reaches out his other hand to caress the fabric.

Enoch’s ribbons flutter in the air around him, more than a few of them draping themselves about him, drawing themselves across his shoulders and sliding down his bark.

As he grows more comfortable with simply touching the fabric his posture relaxes and his eyes begin to fringe with blue. 

He pulls lightly on the fabric around Enoch’s eye, pulling it taught. He runs a claw along the seam there that disappears under the fabric circles sewn on to form eyes.

If he digs his claws in here and rakes them down he could probably split the entire maypole open before Enoch could stop him. 

He restrains himself. 

Instead he moves his attentions to the strange nose-like feature in the center of Enoch’s face. He gently prods the fabric here and Enoch dithers. 

Slowly the Beast ghosts across the entirety of the maypole’s head, his original task nearly forgotten.

Occasionally Enoch will make a small noise or sigh, releasing a truly heavenly scent into the air.

He cups the fabric shape of Enoch’s mouth. He isn’t entirely sure how the maypole manages to be so expressive, there’s only one expression sewn on his face. 

Idly, the Beast starts to pull on a loose end of a thread that binds on the fabric of Enoch’s mouth to the rest of his head. 

Enoch gives a groan and the fabric of his mouth begins to ripple. The Beast jerks back in surprise. 

He watches, transfixed as the fabric begins to fold and ripple back around Enoch’s mouth, the fabric tears and cleaves down the middle and reveals the inside of the maypole. Hay tumbles out of the gaping hole as the edges of the fluttering fabric begin to fold in on themselves. 

Something begins to ripple into existence. Hot, slick, wet flesh, filling in the hay of the mouth, rows of needle like teeth, uneven and too closely clustered together begin to unfold, finding their way into an ever shifting maw. 

A long muscular organ flickers out across the rows of teeth as the harsh edges of torn fabric begin to soften, until where fabric and flesh meet can longer be seen. 

For a moment the teeth continue to shift in their placement, saliva dripping from the teeth, as the walls of the cavernous maw begin to settle in their new place in reality. 

At last, Enoch’s jaws still, fully formed, now ingrained in, rather than overlaying, reality.

The mouth twists into a cruel grin. 

“How is that, dear?” Enoch purrs without opening his new acquisition. 

The Beast sits there stupidly. 

His eyes burn in his skull as he stares at Enoch’s mouth. 

His hands skirt forward but draw back abruptly.

“Come now, Beast, I won't bite.” At the Beast’s unamused look he chuckles and amends the statement. “Well, only a little.” 

Though he’s unamused by Enoch’s little joke, the Beast does eventually reach out to touch the teeth. 

His claws rake gently across those teeth. 

Heat seeps into him from the closeness, warm breath that Enoch doesn’t truly need ghosts over his arm and melts the frost that lingers inside of it.

Isn't he cold against the radiant warmth of Enoch’s maw? He wonders how the creature doesn't flinch from his icy touch. 

Enoch shudders, a thing that would normally have the Beast drawing back to ensure he did not hurt the autumn lord. However, the scent of decadent pleasure that was currently assaulting his senses inclined him to think perhaps it was not a thing born from the cold of his hands. 

Here it is before him, proof of Enoch’s more violent nature and his eldritch side. 

They really were such different creatures. The Beast is horrifying from the start, a strange tree like being with a monstrous appetite, with strange eyes and a unique vocal talent. From the very first time mortal’s came into contact with him, they had thought him a monster. 

But Enoch was different, he was no less horrifying, but he was monstrous in different ways. His strange maypole was disturbing and awe inspiring, he was pleasant and hid most of his more wicked attributes behind plenty and politeness. Mortals, though put off by him, often came to trust him eagerly. 

And they never saw the flashing teeth and treacherous ribbons and many skins until they were devoured, picked clean, so to speak, and so drunk on contentment they could not see the horror in it. 

The Beast marvels at it. 

He runs his hand up the length of one of the longer fangs, pressing his bark against its tip. It cleaves easily and he draws back before it can puncture too deeply. The second row of teeth was only marginally smaller than the first row. 

The Beast counts the rows and gets to 6 before he realizes that the teeth further back in Enoch’s maw are always moving and rearranging themselves as if they’re not quite ingrained in reality. Anything after row four seems to be rather inconsistent.

The scent of Enoch’s pleasure emanates from everywhere, but it is strongest around his head, boiling so thick it’s like an aphrodisiac, clinging to the Beast’s senses and lighting him on fire from the inside out. 

The Beast briefly turns his attention from Enoch’s entrancing teeth to the tongue that is curled at rest like a monster lying in ambush. 

Every now and then it will flick out, tracing over the rows of sharp teeth and winding through the air. 

Occasionally it will flicker out to tap the Beast’s claws. 

The first time it causes the Beast to withdraw in surprise, but after it occasionally laps forward and drags itself across the palm of his hand he realizes Enoch is playing. 

Teasing in a way, trying to draw the Beast’s attention to his tongue. 

The Beast dutifully ignores it for a few minutes. 

Enoch grows bolder, his licks grow longer, no longer does he tap the Beast’s claws before flickering away, instead it lingers, lavishing against his hands.

And then Enoch strikes, his tongue wrapping and binding fast around the Beast’s wrist. 

The Beast chuckles. 

“One of my wrists bound by ribbon, the other bound by your tongue. If I didn't know better harvest lord I would say you have a fixation.”

“Me, Beast?” Enoch drawled, his mouth still and unwavering as he spoke. “A fascination with trapping my enchanting neighbor? Say it ain't so.” 

With a quick flick of his wrist, Enoch’s tongue releases him. 

Somehow, during this entire ordeal of inspecting Enoch’s mouth, the Beast has ended up half way inside of it. 

Admittedly he can’t get too far in, his antlers are much too broad. 

He tilts his head upward to peer up at the fangs that hang down above him like a warning or a promise. 

Something slick and golden drips down one of his fangs, it glows in the lantern light and falls. 

“You’re dripping.” He tells the Harvest Lord.

“Salivating is a part of having a mouth.” The Harvest Lord chortles. 

“No.” The Beast murmurs, bringing one hand up to cup the fang. “It’s not saliva.” 

He gently guides Enoch to tilt so he can better observe the fangs. 

Gold begins to drip from the sharp tooth once more, it slides down the ivory column of Enoch’s fangs and the Beast feels a bolt of fear go through him as he recognizes it. 

“It’s venom.” He says and moves to jerk his arm out of Enoch’s mouth but he’s too slow. 

Enoch’s mouth snaps shut upon her arm faster than a cat upon a mouse. 

Those teeth dig in deep, cleaving into his arm and the Beast’s eyes flare. 

Pure plenty shoots through his arm, infusing into the wood of it as Enoch’s venom flays him alive. Fire lances through him as plenty sears his souls, the pure, unfettered deluge races through him, scoring deep into his bark.

Without veins to spread through it weaves its way through his wood, seeping into it and runs like burning ichor through the tunnels of him. 

The Beast thrashes, but Enoch’s jaws are unyielding, tightly clamped around his arm.

The Beast screams, his voice thunders through Enoch’s barn and rings out across the land. It makes trees quiver and the earth shake as he jerks and yanks wildly, the sound of wood splintering rings in his ears. 

His back arches as Enoch’s teeth dig deeper into him.

He can’t breathe. 

He gasps for air and swallows down liquor-cider scent so thick it’s like he’s drowning washes his mouth. Burning sugar fills his mouth and nose. The smell addles him, and he’s roasting alive, pain, or maybe it’s contentment seeps through his bark and slathers his melting frost in fire. 

His screaming dies out and he knows he’s making a truly pathetic wealth of softer pained noises.

He can't focus. 

The smell in the air turns his stomach in the most pleasant of ways and distracts him from being able to focus on the teeth buried in him.

His souls sing with relief and scream in fear in turns. He can feel them, relishing in the plenty as it fills them even if for only a moment before jerking back, fearful of the depth of plenty that chases after them. 

He finds himself screaming again as he feels a fresh pulse of venom roll through him, softening the edges of an ever present hunger and drawing a dark clawing ravenous thing inside the Beast to the surface.

In a desperate attempt he bucks against Enoch, throwing his other arm up and pushing with punishing claws against the maypole. He kicks one leg wildly as his claws rend through the soft fabric of the maypole, and finally feels some give.

He could sob with relief. 

He wrenches his arm, trying to dislodge it from Enoch’s teeth.

He can feel Enoch laugh around him, a delighted sound. His teeth shift as he laughs and dig deeper into the Beast.

It’s a wicked sound, and it fills what little of his head is left empty after the searing and the scent are taken into account.

The claws of his untrapped hand find Enoch’s head again and he grabs, and yanks the fabric as if his life depended on it, which it might very well. 

He clenches against the fabric and suddenly feels the ribbon around his wrist tighten, gently stroking across the back of his hand. The Beast gasps at the kindness and relaxes in the tight grasp. The gentleness distracts him briefly enough for Enoch to open his jaws and adjust his bite. 

This time, when his jaws snap shut, they close around the Beast’s torso and pierce deep. He can feel them carving new tunnels into already pockmarked wood and interlocking inside him. 

Inside Enoch’s mouth a tongue, slick and powerful, runs soothingly against his abused arm, stroking over splintered and gouged wood.

His saliva is no salve, though, and only serves to further inflict the venom on his broken form.

It does not merely  _ sting _ . 

He is a thing born of, and cut from the cloth of winter. He was a cold frozen thing, a monster that lingered in the shadows and withered in the light. A wretched sniveling thing that feasted upon hopes and despairs. 

He was a  _ beast. _

Wholly and truly.

But here, injected into him by the teeth of autumn, was pure, hot, September, laced with the chill of late November, but still hot enough to make ice steam.

And steam he does, it rises off of him and wafts through the barn, intermingling with the heady smells Enoch contributes.

It does not  _ sting _ . 

It burns.

The Beast gives a violent effort to escape Enoch’s maw but subsides with a whimper when Enoch clenches his jaws.

His struggling is valiant, but in vain against Enoch’s sheer presence and strength. 

Even if he could focus long enough to wedge his scrabbling claws between Enoch’s teeth, even if he wasn't drowning in smell, or was able to ignore the ribbons running through is antlers, he doubts his wooded form would be strong enough to force Enoch’s jaws open. 

He is subdued when another wave of venom trickles from Enoch’s fangs into him and sends the fire of autumn racing beneath his bark. Plenty drowns his hunger and trickles deep inside. The ravenous thing inside him he calls hunger opens a maw of its own to devour all it is given.

As Enoch’s strange brand of toxin fills him, he struggles less. 

Enoch is humming around him. It makes him vibrate and it makes the venom that has not yet permeated him slosh around in the tunnels of his body. 

He recognizes the tune. 

It’s The Mayor’s Hunting. 

How fitting. 

He hangs there, head lolling back, and lets the vibrations rattle through him as the toxin in him simmers and infuses with him.

The Beast does not know how long he lays there, limp in the maw of the lord of the peaceful dead. One half of him, trapped in the old creature’s mouth, and lavished by a cruel tongue, and the other, hanging broken and defeated in open air, cherished and stroked by gentle ribbons.

Eventually, it comes to an end, like all good things must. 

Enoch unlocks his jaw, his teeth no longer clenching and harsh, but holding the Beast very softly as the maypole very gently sets him, boneless and tied in the hay. 

Not that he had bones in the first place.

His tongue laves out over the deep gouges in his torso as an apology. 

The maypole draws back, observing his limp wooded form with satisfaction. The Beast can smell the pride on him and scoffs. 

“Be quiet, Harvest Lord.” He growls. 

“I have not spoken, my dear cricket.” Enoch surveys his hard work, a strip of fabric dancing out and tracing one of the furrows he left in the Beast’s bark. “I take it you enjoyed that?” His voice was rather smug. 

“Yesss.” The Beast hisses, pleased. He is so tired. His bright eyes crescent and he sighs, a soft appeased sound. 

“I rather thought you might.” The humor in Enoch’s voice does not irk him as it normally would. 

“You planned that?” 

“Oh, no, of course not. How could I have known you would ask me to do such a thing.” Enoch grins down at him with the ruined maypole. In his struggles the Beast had done a number upon it, the entire left side of the maypole was a mess of tattered fabric and spilling hay. 

Already his mouth was beginning to stitch itself together and return to its normal unwavering form. 

A pity, the Beast thinks. 

He wouldn't mind spending a few more hours caught in those jaws. 

“But I was not lying earlier when I said it was like putting a feast before a starving man. It was oh-so tempting, you halfway in my mouth like an invitation. A shame I couldn't just devour you whole.” His ribbons tapped at the Beast’s antlers. “Perhaps the only time I have ever been annoyed by the presence of your antlers.”

Enoch shuddered pleasantly at the thought.

The Beast was doing his best to suppress some shuddering of his own at the thought of being eaten alive. 

He was so used to being the one doing the consuming. 

To be consumed was an entirely different matter. 

“I do hope you will pardon my rashness in the situation. It’s just… you were so enticing.” Mischief tinges Enoch’s voice. “I simply had to have a taste.”

The Beast barks out a laugh at that but winces as traces of Enoch’s venom lance through him.

Already, the worst of it is fading, plenty and contentment edging back into gnawing hunger. 

“If that is what you consider a taste I’d hate to know what you do to the food you plan on eating.”

Enoch hums at that. 

“I am not in the habit of eating. Perhaps I was a little excited at the prospect and took a bite instead of a taste. Can you blame me, Beast?” Enoch croons, his ribbons curling about the Beast’s legs. He doesn't have the strength to fight. 

“I most certainly can, and will.”

The Beast knows, logically, that Enoch’s face without the aid of more of his presence, is not capable of pulling complex expressions. But in that moment the maypole seems to leer at him. 

“Would you like me to make it up to you, Hope Eater? It seems only neighborly that after I’ve…” His ribbons flick across the Beast’s half ruined torso. “Damaged you, I make it up in some way.”

The Beast lets out a guffaw at that. 

“You are insatiable, Harvest Lord. To recover from the damage I shall require a week. At least.”

“How about a day?” 

“Is that a challenge, Harvest Lord?” 

“I believe it would be more apt to describe it as a deadline, neighbor. But if a challenge would be more effective in getting you to regrow, then by all means, it’s a challenge.” 

The Beast laughs, and promptly falls into a sleep-like trance. 

When he wakes up there is sharp teeth and venom in his future. 

He could not be more eager.


End file.
